Fallout: What a Wonderful World
by TheGoodDoctorOrange
Summary: I could go into a tragic backstory, but in a world like this just about everyone has some problem or other they have haunting 'em. I guess I can say I am Mark Parall. I live in the area commonly known to locals as "Nye". Old Worlders called it "New York" or something like that. Well, my partner Sam and I work here in the Nye ruins, doing the one thing we do best. Killing raiders.


Throughout history, there has been conflict. Two or more opposing sides clashing in anywhere from a small few fist-fights to hundreds of large scale battles; these battles many times continuing until one side is pounded into submission. Rarely is a suitable compromise reached, even rarer is said compromise reached before too much blood has been spilled. And in the world, conflict always seems to persist. No matter the amount of effort put into ending conflict, it always just keeps on going (someone once said "To get peace, you have to first have war" or some poetic bullshit like that). Fuck, even after the whole damn world has up and gone to shit, humanity finds a way to keep conflict going. Fighting, fighting and more fucking fighting.

But what is the point of conflict? Why would man be so willing to actively go out of his way to simply cause harm to his fellow person? Simply; each side is fighting for (ultimately) what they think is truly right. They are fighting for their beliefs and for what they stand for. But in the end, what is right? Really, which side is correct in any conflict when both sides have equally valid reasons in the disagreement? Is this the time when the lesser of two evils must be sided with? Is this when it really doesn't matter what is right, but more of what your personal (and most likely prejudiced) opinions are? Whatever it is, these days it really only seems that the only thing people fight for is one thing: survival.

I stopped my thoughts as I brought the pair of binoculars I was holding to my eyes.

"I see….. Four, maybe five raiders?"

I lowered the binoculars and handed them to their owner, my partner, Sam. Sam also raised the binoculars to his face and nodded as he said," Yep. Five raiders. One of them is hidden in the buildings to the right.

I scooted back from the edge of the balcony Sam and I were laying on and stood up. I then walked into ruined building the balcony was attached to. I looked around the room I was now in. The roof of the room had a substantial hole in it, leading to the third floor of the three-story building Sam and I had set up our watching post in. There was a ruined couch in the living room with an end table on the right side and a coffee table in the front. The attached kitchen had a small counter, an oven and a (somehow) still functioning refrigerator. I had looted several alcoholic drinks and radiation ridden waters, which were referred to as "dirty waters", from the refrigerator. The bathroom, the only other room in the apartment, was a lost cause. The ceiling had collapsed down into the room and had smashed the sink and toilet.

I turned to the old coffee table, a mottled brown and stain covered table that had seen better days, and walked over to it. As I walked, the many pieces of metal attached to my vest that was worn over my combat armor clinked against each other. I bent over as I reached the table and began picking up my kit: my binoculars, sniper rifle, four magazines of .308 ammunition and my combat knife, freshly sharpened. After checking to make sure my rifle was loaded with a fresh seven-round magazine; I sheathed the knife, put the magazines into my varied mag pouches and hung my well-worn binoculars around my neck.

I then turned to the end table and picked up my .44 magnum. I smiled, looking fondly down at the special seven-shot revolver I had named "Carmine." The matte black surface was well worn from many years of previous use leading to my possession of it, but Carmine still worked like a dream due to the meticulous repairing that had also been put into it during its many years of use. I put the holster for Carmine around my waist, putting the revolver into its sheath and I turned around to see Sam getting ready as well.

Sam was a rather large man, but it was not fat that attributed to his burly stature. He was 250 pounds of pure muscle. Even with his size, Sam was very well known to be very quick on his feet, which had been one of the things that had surprised me the most. The man had the agility of a person much smaller. Sam's face was well tanned and crossed with many scars from incidents where he had been fast, but not fast enough. A person (ie: me when I first met him) would suspect Sam to be a very freighting character, but I found was really a very friendly man when he wasn't being shot at. Sam's brown hair was cut short, his hazel eyes constantly alert even though his posture was very relaxed. Sam was dressed in the same kind of armor as I: short-sleeved leather combat armor with periodic metal plating and a vest covered with numerous metal tags that occasionally clinked together when he walked, his pants (the same kind of leather as his combat armor) reached down to his pre-war military grade combat boots.

Sam racked a round from one of his 5.56mm 30-round magazines into his scoped assault carbine as his looked up to me. The look on his face was projected the silent question perfectly: Ready?

I nodded to Sam and I pulled my vest's hood over my black hair, which reached a little past my ears. Of the things that I was hard-pressed to do given my line of business, a haircut was not one of them. I then looked back up at Sam. When compared to Sam, my 5'8" height was dwarfed by the larger man. Sam stood at a strong six foot three inches, making him a force to be reckoned with out in a world like this. A very powerful ally, as well as a great friend.

After Sam opened the door to make his way to the ground floor, moving virtually silently, I turned to adjust my gloves and move back out to the balcony. As I crawled into place, I brought my binoculars to my face. I saw that the raiders had moved but four yards from the last time Sam and I had watched them. The fifth raider, who had been in an extremely damaged shoe store, was now in the open with his friends, who had set up camp near two destroyed cars that were burnt out next to a patch of dirt and dead grass and the shoe store. They had started a fire that was partially obscured by one of the cars and were cooking a meal. They were oblivious to the two men who were now getting into position to end their lives.

I sighed, letting the binoculars rest once again on my chest before picking up my sniper rifle that was lying in wait next to me. I raised the scope to my left eye and peered down to the camp once again, making some last minute adjustments. I then began to watch the five raiders, three men and two women all with scant armor and small arms, as they started eating what was roasting.  
It had an….. Odd shape…  
I stopped wondering what the meat could be when I saw one of the men, one who was wearing a hockey mask, take a drug (maybe Psycho) and proceed to pull out a switchblade and play 5-finger fillet.

He hit his fingers.

A lot.

I closed his eyes and shuddered. I was glad Sam and I were doing what we were doing.

I looked through the scope once again and searched for the burned out electric blue convertible where Sam would… Yes, there, I thought as I spotted the Cram can that signaled Sam was in place. So it begins, once again.

I turned back to the camp and sighted up the head of the Psycho junkie raider, who was still stabbing himself in the hand. This was the decision that might help damn me even more than

I took a deep breath….

And fired.

The junkie raider's head exploded in a bloody mess of brain matter, skull fragment and hockey mask and his body fell back as his four companions looked on in disbelief. Their silent shock was shattered a second later as automatic fire sprayed into where the raiders were sitting. An older man with a 9mm pistol and woman with a lead pipe were hit with Sam's wild spray. The older man seemed to die and fall behind one of the cars, but the woman twitched for a few seconds before lying still.

By now, the last two raiders, a man and a woman, were trying to fight back against the threats that they could not see. The man was firing his small rifle out from his cover at where he believed I was hiding and the woman was fiddling with a small metal sphere. A familiar looking sphere. A rather dangerous familiar looking sphere.  
Oh no you don't.  
I sighted up the grenade as the woman found the pin and fired. The shrapnel and explosion took off the woman's hands, most of her lower jaw and tore out her throat. The last raider was thrown over the car from the blast and, as he rose to his feet, Sam and I fired simultaneously.

And like that, it was done.

I stood up and strapped my rifle across my back. I then drew my knife and Carmine and slowly started to make my way the stairwell, attempting to ignore the skeletons of those who were caught outside, especially ignoring the baby carriage.

When I reached the ground floor, I quickly met with Sam in the lobby of the apartment building and together we picked our way across the rubble filled street to the makeshift camp. As we reached the bodies, San and I raised our respective weapons and slowed down. While we were confident in our aim and our weapons, we had to be careful. Not doing so got you killed.

I quickly looked around the camp with Sam, trying to see if we had missed any raiders in the battle. From the raiders we found, the verdict was as initially thought; no survivors. Then, as we always did, we went to work.

Approaching the last raider I had killed, the rifleman, I leaned down and began to use my combat knife to cut a piece of metal from the raider's outfit. I then hooked the metal next to another piece on my vest.

This was the part of the job that I was not exceptionally happy with, even though this was how Sam and I were making sure we would get our pay. Both Sam and I were currently being hired by an anonymous benefactor with a lot of money and kit to throw around and one hell of a hate for raiders. This benefactor had several groups of bounty hunters (read, "guns-for-hire"), including Sam and I, working in the New York City (which was simply referred to Nye due to the amount of I HEART NY apparel found in the ruins of the city) metropolis area (or, what was left of it) trying to clear out the raider infestation that had taken a foothold in the city. The only problem with that goal was that for every raider that a hunter killed in Metropolis, at least two other raiders would somehow pop up to take his or her place.

Sam and I had been working for the mysterious benefactor for about six months and had gotten quite a nice haul in the process. Sam had previously commented that in his 15 years of bounty hunting, this had been the best paying job yet. I had been bounty hunting for only two of my twenty three years of life, but had to agree. 150 caps per raider killed was pretty damn nice. Sam was 17 years older than I and I made sure to never forget how lucky I was to have made such a formidably hunter my friend instead of my enemy.

Our enemies were not few, either. Doing the right thing did not always make you popular. Sometimes, not even with the people you were trying to help.

Some people's problems with the hunter groups were that they seemed to operate much like the much hated Talon Company. The heartless mercenaries who could be found in just about any area of the post-apocalyptic United States were known to take any job that meant they got a good amount of caps. No matter how terrible the job, no matter how many they would have kill in cold blood, no matter how much destruction they would cause; Talon Company mercs would do the job, take their money and sleep soundly that night.

Luckily, we were nothing like the bastards. Sam and I were part of the hunter teams and only had orders to kill raiders. We were forbidden from pillaging, stealing and extorting. Most importantly, our contracts clearly stated that we were not, under any circumstances, allowed to take other jobs. We were in the Metropolis ruins for one reason and one reason only: to kill raiders. This made sure none of the bounty hunters were able to sink to Talon Company's level. Taking other jobs voided your contract and made you to be considered a raider.

While we were applauded by some for killing raiders, there were still naysayers. There were those who were opposed to us since we seemed to be indifferent to the other plights of the wastelanders we were "helping" as we did nothing to try to help more. They switched between comparing us between the Talon Company assholes and the thunder cunts in the Brotherhood of Steel. The Brotherhood comparison was due to most of the BoS guys ignoring the problems of the "savages" (which it seemed we were doing, but hey, binding contract) and instead collecting and hoarding old world technology, regardless of whether or not they found it first. They were well known to go to great lengths for technology. Now, the "thunder-cunts" comment might make a person think I hate the Brotherhood, but I have nothing against them, personally. However, killing innocent people for simply "not knowing how to use technology properly" is up there on my list of 'Things to shoot someone for.' So the BoS were not my best friends.

"Hey Mark," said Sam, breaking me from my thoughts,"Lookie what I found."  
I began to look up from the raider I had dubbed "Psycho," when I thought I noticed movement near one of the cars… A car with 5.56 bullet holes in it…. Oh shit.

"Sam, look out!" I yelled as I brought Carmine to bear on the old man raider, who was crawling forward with his pistol in his hand. He was pointing at Sam and began to shift towards me as he fired a single shot. The shot went wide as I squeezed Carmine's trigger twice. The .44 Magnum rounds tore into the man's chest and head respectively, the headshot removing much of the top of the man's skull.

Sam looked intently at the now dead raider, who was not only bleeding from my magnum's shots, but Sam's carbine's shots as well. "Thanks man," Sam whispered as he scratched the back of his head, "that guy was one tough bastard, huh."

I nodded in agreement, also looking at the raider, before turning to Sam and saying," Weren't you going to show me something?"

Sam perked up and got an idiotic grin as he replied, "Oh yeah, look at these," as Sam held up two grenades he had found on the dead grenadier. One grenade had a pair of blue bands, the other had red.

Well fuck me sideways, it must be Christmas, I thought as I whistled," Pulse and incendiary? Pretty nice kit for some rather poorly armed raiders."

"Yep," replied Sam, nodding," You know who'd have loved these?"

"Harrison." I said, sighing. Dammit…

Harrison had been with Sam and I for several months when we started working in the Metropolis ruins. Harrison had been a very energetic explosives expert with a special love in his heart for fire. Harrison had also been one hell of a shot with a 40mm grenade rifle. He had been quick to a joke and had always tried to be the moral officer for us. He may have been cocky as hell, but he really cared about us. He tried to keep us happy. Harrison hated to see a frown. He was one hell of a friend. Sadly, bounty hunters are not bulletproof, which was a lesson learned the hard way. Four months into the deployment (or whatever you want to call this), our little group had gotten lax. We had yet to have a casualty and everyone, except for Sam, who knew better, was getting pretty cocky. Harrison, who was always cocky, acted like he was on top of the world. He had been disarming a mine under a shopping cart when a sniper hidden in an upper bedroom of a 2-story house shot him in the head, killing him. Harrison then fell on the mine and blew up, as if his death wasn't shocking already.

After I killed the sniper (as I had the one long ranged rifle) and we raided the sniper nest, it was found that not only was the sniper living in his own piss and shit, but his rifle was in such dis-repair that a shot to anywhere but the head would have been easily survivable. Some people have the shittiest luck. At least his death was quick and most likely painless.

Clair was not as lucky. Clair had been our group's scout and was one of the quietest people that I had known (not saying much, as I did not get to meet many different people). That being said, Clair was very quiet and very lucky, which made her one hell of a card player, as well as an excellent scout. We joked that if we ever played a high stakes poker game, Clair would be the new group treasurer. Clair was also peculiar in that she was the only one of the group who did not take souvenirs to mark her kills. She had been in the business for something other than the money.

One time, Clair had been scouting out a small building with her silenced 10mm submachine gun when a doped up raider burst out of a room and unloaded a double-barrel shotgun into her chest. The first shot did not cause as much damage as it could have, but the second shot punched through Clair's recon armor and into her stomach. The three of us left had heard the shots and Clair's scream and had run over to see what had happened. We arrived to see her bleeding out on the floor of a hallway with a dead raider lying across from her. He was missing his head. Clair stayed alive for five more minutes as Sam and I killed the three other raiders in the building and our group's last member and self-proclaimed medic, a man who only asked to be called Strickland (whom they referred to as "Doc Strict" for his solemn demeanor), tried everything he knew to try and save her. Turns out even the most lucky of people lose to a gut full of birdshot. This happened but three weeks after Harrison's unfortunate end. A week after Clair passed on, Strickland disappeared, leaving just Sam and I to keep hunting down as many raiders as possible.

And that was it; our little band of bounty hunters was basically decimated by a batshit insane sniper, a drug addict and one of the greatest killers of the Wastes: depression. The so-called "Ghosts of Nye," as the raiders had nicknamed us, were just about all done. The raiders enjoyed their nicknames; as, in the time we had been there, we had all received nicknames. Harrison was "Fucking Maniac." They were really profound with his, but really, what can you expect from the people who were being torn apart by explosive traffic cones and nail bombs hidden inside of trash cans. Clair was the "Angel of Death" due to the myth of her not actually being an actual person. Instead it was said that she was a specter living in the ruins that went after the people she though caused her death. And who said raiders didn't have a rich mythology? Strickland was the "Shotgun Surgeon" due to his proficiency with a 12-gauge Ithaca 37 police shotgun that had apparently been in his family for years. He was one deadly man when he needed to be, it turned out. I guess it is just fitting the one guy who know best how to keep us together was also pretty good at taking our adversaries apart. Lastly, Sam and I were known as "Grim" and "Reaper." We got these names after we became the only two of our group left in the Metropolis ruins alive. Our renewed vigor and motivation for killing after losing several friends made us a force to be reckoned with.

I let out a deep sigh and shook my head to clear my thoughts. Too many memories would cloud my judgment and make me lose my focus. I may have used Harrison and Clair as motivators for my job, but I did not think of them as much as I could. Seeking revenge had a tendency to cause what were known as "Grade A Fuck-Ups," which got either the person seeking revenge, innocent people or both, killed. I pushed the memories back to the recesses of my brain, along with my guilt and my anger at Strickland… Two things I was trying not to remember… Dammit brain, you love making me miserable…  
I looked at Sam and told him," Pocket them. I'm sure we can find some use for them," as I began to walk toward the campfire to investigate.

Sam laughed," Way ahead of you, little man." And, still chuckling, began to store the grenades into his pack before going back to looting the bodies of ammo and some sellable junk.

I turned and decided the fire was a good place to loot around in. As I walked up to the fire, I picked up a small chunk of meat on one of the plates, investigating it. While it may not have been the healthiest, I definitely smelled pretty good. Maybe just a bite...

When I was closer to the fire, I began to see the meal the raiders were preparing a little better. Maybe if I could find out what they were eating. If it isn't too tainted, maybe I can pocket some. Fuck, anything to distract myself. I began to squint as I got closer. Raising the meat to my mouth I began to notice the shape a little better. What the fuck is that… Is it…

"No….. No fucking way!" I shouted as I backed up.

Choking back vomit, I began to run into the destroyed shoe store. As I got in, though, I saw the sack. There was a hand sticking out.

A small hand.

I ran out of the building and began throwing up on one of the cars. As it would turn out, the taste of two century old Cram is no better the second time. This revelation did not help me as I began to throw up even more.

Sam stood behind me, also seeing what I had seen. Sam's grin was now replaced with a solemn look that obviously meant "No more time for fucking around."

As I finished retching my anger surfaced, not at Strickland, but at the raiders we had just slaughtered. I turned to where I had dropped the hunk of flesh and kicked it away. I cursed to myself, then at the raiders, wishing every terrible thing I knew onto them. Whichever sick, twisted fucker suggested eating children should be (and probably already had been) dragged into the street and shot.

I spit, the taste of vomit still in my mouth, before I walked up to one of the raiders to see which group the child-eating fuckers had come from. The first two raiders I checked had no distinguishing marks, but on the junkie's scarce armor was a small patch: a reared up horse or pony facing the right, with the left front leg out straight. Well, this was interesting…. I had never seen this insignia before, so I was plenty confused. Deciding I was going to try and identify the bastard later, I cut off the patch and stuck it into my pants pocket.

I turned to see Sam had already started digging a hole in the large dirt and dead grass patch. I walked over and began to help dig the soon to be grave. After about five minutes of digging, Sam and I climbed out of the hole and Sam, knowing what I was experiencing, carried all of the small bodies over to the makeshift grave. After lowering them in, Sam and I started to cover the bodies of at least four children who would never live to see the world, even if it had gone to shit.

When they were done, we piled the five raiders (or, at least what was left of them) and then struck an unspoken agreement. We knew what must be done.

Sam handed me the cylindrical object and I turned to the pile of now dead raiders. With a straight face, I walked up to the pile and looked down. Ithen looked at the fresh grave and at the pile once more. I then squatted down and looked the rifle man in the eyes with a look of pure contempt.

Harrison always did have a soft spot for kids.

I place the incendiary grenade into the middle of the pile of corpses and armed it. I then turned and ran for cover behind one of the many burned out cars that occupied the road. Just as I reached safety, the grenade went off.

Then it began to rain flaming body parts.

Sam and I stood up and began to walk away, as our job was now done. But then I paused for a minute and then turned around.  
I spit in the general direction of the now burning raiders. I had realized something. I've been asked why I do what I do. Why do I kill so many people? Is it money? Is it fame? Is it for the pure glory of killing? No… No, it is rather clear now. I do what I do for Harrison. For Clair. For the kids. For every single good person that the Wastes have chewed up and spat out. So that, maybe, one day we will not have to worry about being shot in the head walking out to go to the fucking bathroom simply because someone likes your hat or shoes.

I looked down and kicked a piece of rubble that was common in the city and then looked up at the always overcast, always yellow sky. In the distance, I could see the mountains and the dirt-brown rocks that were a common sight outside of the city. It was never green due to the radiation making it nearly impossible to grow much in the soil.

I sighed as I looked at Sam, who was now a bit ahead of me, and then back to the distant mountains.

"Welcome to the fucking Wasteland," I muttered as I turned back to Sam and rushed to catch up. We wanted to hurry so that we could get our pay at the next drop-off location and then set up shop once again. Life in the Wastes never changes.


End file.
